Saturday Night at the Blue Beet

The girls Roger and his pals were trying to pick up on leave without any guys.

"We had a really nice night," one of the girls says. "But we had a lot of sharks around us. They were just trying too hard."

Within 15 minutes, the doors are locked and the Beet is empty of customers. The room is quiet. Most of the staff—Stacy, John, Brent, Gina, Betty, Chris and the rest of security—are all seated. Some are digging into steak quesadillas.

Aucencio is emptying the garbage. Someone says a drunk vomited in the men's room sink, plugging it up; Aucencio will have to take care of that, too. Under a large photo of a very young Sinatra at Toots Shor's, Stacy and Brent count tips. It hasn't been a good night. The crowd eventually came, but it came too late.

"What it comes down to is Brent wasn't flirting enough," jokes Stacy.

One of the security guys heads out back to unlock the bar chairs and bring them back in, only to realize the keys are missing. Their search is fruitless. By 3 a.m., most of the staff has gone home. The bar chairs are still locked up out back.

Finally, one of the guards goes up to John. "Do you have any bolt cutters?" he asks.

By this time, I'm out the door. I don't hear John's response. But when I drop by the Beet on Monday night, the chairs are where they should be.